And Day Shall Come Again
by Amano Unmei
Summary: Ner'zhul wanted only peace in death. What would happen if he died after the Frozen Throne was shattered, leaving place in Arthas' body for his own soul...? May later contain yaoi as a secondary plot.
1. Undead Do Not Cry

**Category:** Warcraft  
**Type:** Action/Adventure/Romance  
**Rating:** PG-13 or whatever.  
**Disclaimer:** World and characters belong to Blizzard Ent. Title from Blind Guardian's "A Dark Passage".

Special thanks to Mori for the idea of making Gandling the bad guy.

**Warning:** May contain yaoi, but as a _secondary_ event.

* * *

Dark times for the dark...

Four years ago it all seemed so simple. Cleanse all humanity from my kingdom, shatter the Forsaken rebellion, save Ner'zhul. But it was there, back at Icecrown, where it all began and it all ended. I outran Illidan to the top of the glacier and freed Ner'zhul as he wished. I merged with him, our sould binding, thus I am the new Lich King.

Still only I know that it is not true. Ner'zhul wanted to die, to finally find salvation in death, and the destruction of the Frozen Throne granted his wish. When I put the enchanted helmet on, it was not his soul that entered my body, but _my own_. Since then I am once again the old Arthar, not the undead king, but the paladin prince.

But what way is there for me in this blighted land? The path leading back vanished, and I can go only forth. I must play my role and I shall. This is the price I pay to redeem me for my sisn... the pain I feel each time I roam across Lordaeron. I must not let anyone know. No matter how much I suffer...

So I must hold tears. Undead do not cry.

The wind blew warmer as they neared the shores of Lordaeron. Arthas walked grimly, his face down, since he set foot on the blighted ground. He sighed inwardly. The very view of the land pained him, and there were many enemies lurking about. The Plaguelands were far from safe.

This is how a king feelins in his own kingdom, he thought bitterly.

'My king,' a necromancer approached, 'a new message from Lord Barov has arrived.'

Arthas reached out with his hand. Instantly a piece of old, rolled parchment was placed in it. The death knight broke the dark seal of Scholomance and trailed the words of the undead tongue slowly. He sighed heavily and rolled the parchment back.

He threw it at the messenger. 'The Barovs were forced to escape from Caer Darrow.' he announced in a tired voice. 'Gandling realized they're spies.'

The air suddenly became heavy and thick.

'What shall we do then, my king?'

There was a loud clash of irom as Arthas shrugged. 'Meet them at Stratholme. Kel'Thuzad should be there as well.'

Their first stop was far from their landing sie, at the small crossroads town of Corin's Crossing. The buildings were devastated enough for anyone reasonable not to enter them. But Arthas insisted that he sleeps upstairs in the inn. _Alone_.

He sat heavily on the dustied bed. A few cockroaches fled from underneath it as it creeked. The king buried his face in his arms and rubbed his eyes.

His power wanes. Soon the mindless undead will run free, awaiting someone to gain control over them. But what about those that had their free will? Anub'arak? Kel'Thuzad? The Barovs? Rivendare? Will they still remain by his side?

Gandling wa first to break free and raise a rebellion. He took over Scholomance. He will surely try and turn the Cult of the Damned against its king...

Will that include Kel'Thuzad?

He shook his head and collapsed on the bed. He gave a damn about sheets, about taking off his armour. He wanted to fall asleep and get his mind off the lich.

Kel'Thuzad...

The way towards the once great city of Stratholme was long but safe. Amidst the spooky Plaguewood (which, ironically, hadn't had a single tree) stood the walls of white stone. Arthas remembered that few years ago, driven by fury and vengeance, he burnt this city to the ground. The still burning result stood now before him.

Damn you, Mal'Ganis...!

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. Hide emotions, he reminded himself, they cannot know. He galloped forward, leaving his troops a bit behind, making it easier for him to keep the mask on.

The Plaguewood was sinisterly silent. Usually the undead were all over it, but he saw no one. Much to his horror, he noticed that one of the plague cauldrons overlooked by the Cult was turned over, the boiling substance now spread on the blight, painting it poisonous green. Arthas gulped audiably.

Is it Gandling's doing? Has he already rallied the Cult to Scholomance?

He moved forth, but slowly, waiting for his troops to catch up. There was something lurking about, he knew it. His warriors also did, for they remained as silent as they could.

Their king went on. Strathole was so close now, and soon they would be safe...

He heard clash of iron. The sounds of a battle that came from the direction of the city. As they neared the bridge of white stone all became clear. To Arthas' horror, humans in red and golden plate armours were fighting against three familiar figures.

The Scarlet Crusade. They must have somehow cleared the Plaguewood of all his undead and now they stopped the travellers, which they vastly outnumbered.

The Barovs!

Yelling a loud order in the harsh undead language, he drew his mighty runeblade and rushed forward. When his troops joined in, the Crusaders were all taken aback. Within a few minuted it all was over, the stone bridge as crimson as the armours on it.

'King Arthas!' lady Illucia Barov called relieved as her daugher bent over her wounded father. 'You made it just in time!'

'I can clearly see that, my lady.' the death knight replied in what he hoped to be a flat tone. 'What has happened here?'

'Well, apparently...' Illucia began, but never finished. A loud call from the Stratholme walls echoed across the wood.

'Well met, your honour!'

Arthas gazed up, fury shining in his poisonously green eyes. On the stone walls, amongst Scarlet guards, he saw one different man. In addition to his crimson and gold armour, he wore a long cape with a woven symbol of the Light and a discrete, ruby circlet on his forehead. His long hair, moustache and short bears were of light brown colour. The man was grinning nastily.

Arthas gulped inwardly.

'I do believe we had not met before, your majesty.' the man called. 'I know you well, but allow me to introduce myself. My name, sire, is Dathrohan.'

_Dathrohan_...

'The Grand Crusader...' the king hissed.

'Indeed it is me, good king. As you see, I have decided to do some changes in this city.'

Arthas spat. And that was his only reply.

'Not very talktative, are we, your honour?' Dathrohan teased, a gleam of insanity in his eyes. 'Let us not be rude, sire. I have prepared a gift for your arrival.'

As he waved his gloved hand, a few of his men threw something over the wall. For a second it was just a blurred image that cleared as the thing hit the groung. From that point it became a body of a black-clad man. With his heart beating fast, Arthas approached it.

His eyes widened with horror and his lips began to tremble. He recognised the death knight charged with overseeing Startholme, the one that always his his face under a black veil. A strong warrior and trusted leutainant.

Baron Rivendare.

Arthas thanked the Light that Dathrohan cannot see his tears from the distance.

But someone else did. At his side, Alexiei Barov finally got to his feet and noticed the silvery streams on his king's ashen face. And instantly knew something is wrong.

For undead do not cry.

'How dare you!' Arthas bellowed. His voice was not shaking. There was only fury in it.

'There is more, your majesty.' Dathrohan laughed coldly. 'I have the lich.'

The king suddenly felt a huge piece of ice i his stomach.

'We can bargain.' the Grand Crusader offered. 'I will let him go... if you bring me the head of Varimathras within seven days.'

'Varimathras?' Arthas could not shake off the amazement. 'And seven days!'

'Not an hour longer. Good day to you, sire.'

He withdrew from the walls.

Seven days...

How am I supposed to assault the Undercity and slay a dreadlord with my power waning? I won't be able to rally enough troops. They simply won't heed my call. And the Nerubians will never reach us in time...

So this is going to be my end. End of the Scourge. Rivendare was first.

Next Kel'Thuzad...

No... I beg you, Holy Light, anyone but him...

But... if I...

I must call for help! There is someone who might understand...

'My king...'

'A-Alexiei...' Arthas held his breath, not turning around. 'How are your wounds?' he added, trying to hide what he wished to remain hidden.

'I will be fine, my king. But you...'

There was silence.

Barov decided to risk it.

'You were crying, my king.' he announced.

Arthas nodded slowly. He knows.

The other death knight approached his ruler and, after a brief moment of hesitations, placed a hand on his shoulder. Surprised by this bold act, the undead king blinked slowly.

'I do grieve after Rivendare's loss, my king.' Barov said silently. 'And am no less worried about Kel'Thuzad.' he paused. 'But you have enough warriors.'

Arthas shook his head and removed the mail-clad hand. 'No, Alexiei, not anymore.' he whispered. 'You saw me crying, so you know. I have little power over undead now. That's why Gandling broke free.'

'There must be a way to save Kel'Thuzad, my king...'

'There just may be...'

Barov gazed silently as his master stood up and turned to him. The poisonously green eyes were tired and lost the insane shine they once had.

And, as he noticed, around the green there was a thin ting of blue.

Eyes reflect the soul, he thought.

'I will try to get help.' Arthas announced. 'I don't know if I'll get any, but we have nothing to lose.'

barov slowly nodded.

'Now tell me, Alexiei... you know that now you are free. Where do you choose to go?'

He can't go back to Scholomance, that's for sure...

Barov closed his eyes and knelt, his hands holding his sword. The runeblade stood vertically to the floor, the evening sun playing games on its carved edges. The death knight lowered his head ad his face was no longer visible among the thick white hair.

Arthas held his breath.

'I have chosen years ago, when my gates stood open before Kel'Thuzad. Once again I, Alexiei Barov, pledge myself to you, king Arthas. You have my allegiance and my sword. I swear to fight and protect you as long as I have the strenght to attack.' he looked up. 'I am yours.'

Arthas only smiled.

The sun rose up lazily above the white tower of Theramore Island. In the bright morning light the building shone with splendour and a certain magic touch. After all, it belonged to the most powerful human archamge alive.

Who, currently, was in a very bad mood.

'I _told_ you not to disturb me, Trevosh!' she bellowed. 'Especially with something so ridiculous!'

The mage before her swallowed. 'But, my lady...'

'Letter brought by a vulture, _pu-lease_!' Jaina went on, ignoring him. 'Of all the idiotic things to say...'

Trevosh gathered what was left of his courage and reached out with his hand. It held a scroll of old, somewhat stinking parchment. The seal on it was dark green.

Jaina grabbed the letter furiously and surveyed the wax seal. The symbol on it was a skull with a sword right behind it. She frowned and broke it, unrolling the parchment.

The handwriting was messy, letters written in a hurry, yet terrifyingly familiar.

_"Dearest Jaina, I know I surprised you, but I beg you, read this letter before you destroy it. It is I, Jaina. Arthas Menethil. Four years ago, when merging with Ner'zhul back it Icecrown Glacier, I reclaimed my soul. I am human, Jaina. The paladin again. I lived as the undead king because there was no other way._

But now everything crumbles. As a human I no longer have power over the mindless undead. It wanes daily. And the effects are already visible. Darkmaster Gandling took over Caer Darrow and Scholomance, turning the Cult of the Damned against me. I lost one stronghold then.

And, to my horror, the Scarlet Crusade took over Stratholme. Yes, I realize that it is I who burnt it down, but still... Dathrohan, the Grand Crusader, slew Rivendare, one of my best death knights. The bastard dared to throw his body to my feet! And he still keeps Kel'Thuzad imprisoned. He will kill him if I do not bring him the head of Varimathras within seven days. That is, at the moment when this is being written.

This is where I ask you for help, Jaina. I have only oseveral warriors left now, and soon they too will forsake me. Only the Barov family will remain by my side. You must aid me, Jaina. I do not wish to slay Varimathras, but Kel'Thuzad is the last person I want dead.

I know you have no reason to believe in any of this. I have only one proof that I do not lie. I am crying, Jaina. I cried when I saw Rivendare. Undead do not cry.

Your old friend,  
Arthas Menethil."

Jaina reread the letter a few times, disbelieving. There were stains on the parchment.

Tears.

She looked out of the window, her eyes fogged, dreamy.

Arthas...

Arthas.

**End of ch. I. **


	2. Eyes Reflect the Soul

Terrordale seemed more desolate and silent than ever. Arthas chose this place as his hideout because it was close to Stratholme and at the very end of the Plaguewood at the same time. There was little chance that anyone reasonable would reach the remnants of this village, apart from the Scarlet Crusade.

But the Plaguelands weren't safe for him anymore.

And now, two days after he had sent the letter, his fears were coming true. Time was running short - only five days left - and he had only three Barovs with him now.

Holy Light, he prayed inwardly, punish me, but leave Kel'Thuzad alone...

_Please..._

Not a poetic prayer, he commented bitterly as he watched the distant outlines of Stratholme. He tried to force himself to think that there maybe is a chance, that he still may succeed...

Who am I kidding...?

Kel... if only you knew...

**

**

North-west of the continent there was a plagued land that still fought hard for its life. The noble High Elves stood fast in what remained of their ancient homeland. They did their best - and succeeded. Despite of the blight and death that ravaged through their land, trees still grew and animals lived.

Yet there was much that still needed doing. The elves' primary goal is to defend themselves and secure a possibility to act.

The leader of their main defensive force - in fact, a rebellion - was now sitting at the northern shore of Quel'Thalas, gazing at the direction of the island where the fouled Sunwell stood. Wind danced in between her long, brown braids and her pointy half-elven ears.

She sighed heavily.

An archer approached her.

'Ishnu-ala, my lady.' she bowed. The half-elf turned to her. 'There is someone that wishes to see you.'

The guest was dresed in long blue robes, woven with golden thread. As the ranger approached, the lady in blue removed her hood, revealing golden hair and a bright face.

'Jaina!' the half-elf gasped.

'Finnall Goldensword.' the archmage smiled broadly. 'Eldest daughter of my father.

'Jaina, by the Light, what are you doing back here? Theramore...'

'Theramore is safe even without me. There is something I would like you to do for me...'

Finnall raised one brown eyebrow.

'I will need a horse and some supplies for my men.'

'What for?'

'Long story.'

'Tell me.'

'No time!' Jaina snapped. 'I must make haste. Someone is in big, I mean _big_ trouble out in the Plaguelands!'

The half-elf grinned widely. Her thin face suddenly seemed much wider, and her eyes burnt with an eager fire. Her half-sister thought that now she is much more than a leader. She looks like a queen.

Good wife for the poor heartbroken Kael, she thought bitterly.

Finnall replied: 'You can count on me, Jaina. I will give you a horse, supplies and men. In fact, I will go along.'

Jaina's jaw fell open. 'But-'

'No buts.' the ranger gazed at the setting sun. 'Ready when you are, sister.'

**

**

Four days, Light dammit! And I am stuck in this crumbling, desolate village with three undead men by my side. I can get slain at any moment.

Joy.

Four bloody days!

There was slight movement outside the crumbling house he was no in. Alexiei must be patrolling, Arthas told himself. Illucia and Jandice may be now checking the alarm spell - the only one they dared to cast in order not to attract too much attention.

Especially Gandling's.

Suddenly heavy footsteps of the patrolling death knight ceased. Arthas approached a window silently and wiped the thick layer of dirt and dust as best as he could. He peeked through carefully. He watched.

Barov stood straight, his hand gripping his runeblade firmly. His eyes were fixed before him, eyebrows narrowed. But he did not flee.

My faithful knight, Arthas smiled grimly. If only your allegiance was enough...

Finaly, after a few long moments of unease silence, two horsemen approached the motionless death knight. Horse_women_, actually. Arthas recognized the one on the white steed, a girl dressed in blue robes and a blue woven cape. A hood his her face, so that the king could not see it from this angle. But he didn't need to.

Bless you, Jaina Proudmoore!

Barov was talking to the ladies the very moment Arthas burst out of the old house.

'My king...'

'Not a word, Alexiei!' the king said firmly.

And he knelt.

The half-elf on the black horse gazed wide-eyed as the blonde archmage coughed.

'Arthas...'

'What the bloody hell _is_ going _on_ here?' Finnall burst out, gazing at the other rider.

'I was just going to ask the very same question.' Barov mumbled. 'My king...?'

'Long story short.' Arthas began eagerly. 'I asked Jaina to help us save Kel'Thuzad.' Alexiei ndded. His king turned back to Finnall. 'Because I am human again.'

The half-elf rebel snorted with laughter. She eyes the ashen face of the undead ruler with a nasty grin. She threw one brown braid to her side.

'If you had told me, I'd never come, sister.' Arthas blinked. Sister? 'Human again, good joke...'

She turned her black steed around, ready to take off. Jaina reached out with her hand, wanting to say something, to keep her there... but it was not her who stopped Finnall.

'Wait.'

The calm, cold voice made the ranger turn around once more. Barov spoke directly to her, his ice-blue eyes fixed at her amber ones.

'You were saying...?'

Alexiei did something Arthas is going to remember for a very long time. If he was able to focus back there - shocked by his servant's actions - he would promise him everything he wished. Maybe he'd even cry.

'My lady,' Barov bowed lightly before Finnall 'if you please dismounted, you could see the proof that my king does not lie.'

The half-elf sent a question look at Jaina, who nodded. Her face was firm and serious; the ranger dismounted and glared at Barov.

He grabbed Arthas by the shoulders and pulled him up to his feet.

'Now look him in the eyes.'

Finnall did. She gazed deep into them for many long moments of silence, both of them motionless. Barov realized he is holding his breath. Finally, the elven ranger blinked. She focused on the poisonous green of Arthas' eyes, the colour of disease and insanity. But there was something wrong with it, a tiny detail she could not find.

And then she knew it.

Around the pool of green there was a thin ring of blue.

Finnall looked at Jaina, shocked, and then at Alexiei.

Eyes reflect the soul.

She nodded.

**

**

'Finnall Goldensword is the oldest daughter of Daelin Proudmoore.' Jaina explained with a nasty grin. 'Her mother was a renowed elven mage of the Kirin Tor.'

'But...' Arthas mumbled.

'It was _before_ my father married my mother. He left after a short stay in Dalaran, and when he returned - married already - Finnall was still an infant.'

'That's a complicated family tree...' the king commented. The girl patted him at one shoulder.

'You'll get used to it. The problem is Finnall.' she paused. 'She saw you slay her mother.'

There was silence.

**

**

The sunrays, turned purple by the toxic air of the Plaguelands, fell with their usual golden grace on the white stoned of the Scarlet Basilica. The white and crimson banners flapped gently with the slight wind. The bastion of the Scarlet Crusade - called by them Tyr's Hand - was located in south-western part of the Plaguelands. And at the same time was one of two places there that remained green and unblighted. The Crusade built magnificent strongholds in Tyr's Hand and Heartglenn to the west and stood fast in their mission. Yet no one dared to ask how come the plague has not reached those places.

Or how were they purified.

An old, grey-haired man in white robes roamed across the tranquil gardens of Tyr's Hand, watching the green. He smiled gently.

'Sir...'

The man turned around slowly. A young blonde lady stood at the garden gate. She was dressed in light mail armour - crimson of course - and was panting heavily.

The priest's smile vanished. 'Wat has happened, child?'

'A message from Stratholme, sir!' she breathed. She held out a hand that was squeezing a sealed envelope. The robed man approached her and grabbed it. Nodding, he broke the scarlet seal and rad the neat, somewhat inhuman handwriting.

He felt the eerie force emanating from the parchment. He also knew what it may mean. And he ignored it.

Because humans see what they wish to.

After a brief moment of silence, the priest gave an order:

'Rally the troops. On the double.'

**

**

'This plan is insane, Arthas.' Jaina commented.

'It just may work.' the king pointed at a very old, yellow piece of a map.' We'd have to lure them out of there somehow.'

Finnall eyed the map, eyebrows narrowed. 'Wish you luck then.' she mumbled. 'How on Azeroth are you going to do that?'

Arthas shrugged. The rest sighed althogether. The day was almost at its end. Soon they will have only three more left. The sun went down very fast, as if on purpose. The plae moon rose shyly to take its place. Alexiei Barov gazed at it, his nerves tensing. So little time and so little done...

His king thought the very same. Only that now he again had someone to pray to.

'My king...' Illucia said shyly. All eyes turned to her. 'I think I have an idea that just might help.'

'Speak.' Arthas encouraged her.

'Jandice and I can prepare something for you, my king.'

They all listened closely as she explained her plan detail by detail. And, one by one, wide grins appeared on their faces. Not all is lost yet.

Only that when they finish, they will have just one day left.

**

**

Here is where it all began.

Once a mighty stronghold of the Barov family, Caer Darrow on Darrowmere Lake was in ruin. Its grey walls were devastated, the gate broken, and houses crumbled. The keep no longer had a roof either, and the only sign of any activity within it was a fireplace burning with eerie colours.

But in truth, deep under Caer Darrow, were complex corridors and dungeons. Those that lived in this place, known as Scholomance, hung shredded banners on Caer Darrow's gates.

Banners of the Lich King.

Years ago, on his behalf, a guest came to the Barovs. A mysterious guest who later appeared to be none other than the necromancers Kel'Thuzad himself. It was him who formed Scholomance, the school of dark arts, and shortly after his arrival things changed at the keep. There were experiments. Chants. Rituals. Slaughter.

Because the Cult of the Damned was formed.

After some time Kel'Thuzad had to leave Caer Darrow to oversee the spreading of the Scourge in Lordaeron. He left a powerful warlock named Gandling in charge. He was the most powerful after Kel'Thuzad himself, a headmaster in a dark school. He and his students were responsible for maintaining the plague cauldrons in Arthas' land.

Now he broke free. And the Cult joined his rebellion.

Gandling sat in his headmaster's chair and grinned. Of all the undead, he knew the best what is happening to Arthas and how to use it for his own benefit.

Free will is a wonderful thing, he thought. The Barovs should be dead by now. And even if not, they soon will be.

He laughed insanely. For he was insane. For human standards, that is. He was a completely normal undead.

All the teachers should have strenghtened the spells by now. Soon, more undead shall come to Scholomance, rallied under his own, black banner... How sweet is the taste of power! And he wants more. More.

A knock on the door brought him back to Azeroth.

'Who's there?' he asked coldly. All undead were cold.

'Malicia, master.' a female voice from beyong the door replied. 'I bring dire news!'

'Enter.'

The door creaked open as Malicia came in. She was an undead High Elf, but - unlike the rest - her face was not grey and her hair not black. She looked as she always did. She gazed at Gandling's face - or more like that part of it that was visible above the veil. The headmaster liked secrecy. Very much.

'Speak.' he ordered shortly. If it's Arthas he thought, I'll get mad.

'Ras reports that the Crusade is marching towards us from the east.' Malicia said. Gandling raised an eyebrow.

'The Crusade?'

'He has seen them, master. They will attack.'

The warlock nodded. Sure he did. Liches have their ways.

'When has he seen them then?'

'Just a minute ago, master. I came here immidiately.'

Another nod. 'How far where they?'

'Nearing they river, master.'

Gandling sneered under the veil. They will be at the keep in less than three hours if the march swiftly. And they do, oh, they do. The Crusade is always swift and deadly.

They have very little time.

'We must move!'

**

**

Let us move back a bit north and east once more, back to the great city of Stratholme. Past its untouched walls and gates one would not notice a single change. There were corpses of men and undead still laying amongst ashes of their homes. No one even bothered to clean the city up. Members of the Scarlet Crusade just walked amongst those scened of slaughter and devastation, ignoring even the overwhelming stench of decay. There were little of them left after the fight for Stratholme and now they awaited reinforcements.

If only Arthas knew that...

But let us move a bit deeper into the city. Somewhere at its devastated streets there was an old and rusty gate of bars. It led to the city dungeons. Down in their dark, wet and winding corridors there were many cells, big and small, but only one occupied.

Bones rattled against stone and chains as Kel'Thuzad laid himself on the cold floor. If skeletons could make faces, he would now grin very nastily.

His bluff seems to be working.

And he has another plan ready...

**End of ch. II. **


	3. Blood for Blood

I just wanted to say I'm sorry if the plot is unclear. When I began this I wasn't really sure where I want to get this, and I'm still not exactly concerned, but thngs will begin to clarify... I hope. Thanks for being with me despite this chaos!

Troops had reached their destination. The crimson army stood before the stone bridge leading straight to Caer Darrow. The warrior had seen the crumbling walls, hid in the toxic, oddly orange air, and the flapping navy banners of the Lich King.

Before the army stood a rider. It was the old, grey-haired priest that received the message just a few hours ago. He was entrusted with leading the assault.

He gazed up at the ruined keep. There were unnumbered undead down in the dungeons. Light knows if they can actually win. Perhaps there was too few of them - and that's what he feared. But the others would not wait for reinforcements from Tirisfal.

Now or never.

Light be with us...

Something moved in Caer Darrow. Slow, heavy steps echoed, but they were steps of bare feet. A few hideous, dark-green and twisted corpses moved to the gates, but did not cross them. Few lines of mindless zombies gave cover to the warlocks and necromancers of the Cult of the Damned.

Defenders halways have the advantage, the head priest thought...

Up at the hill behind the walls, at the very entrance to Scholomance, stood one more human figure. A tall man dressed in completely black robes with a hood. His eyes shone with brilliance and insanity. He hid his ashen face under a veil.

Gandling.

'Greetings, mighty Crusaders!' he bellowed. 'We have been expecting you!'

Oh, yes?

'I suppose you might have.' the priest called back. 'But that does not matter. We came here to continue our crusade!'

Gandling grinned. 'I would love to see you break through my defenses! With each of you fallen one of us rises!' he laughed. It was a loud, insane laugh that chilled the humans to the bone.

The head priest clenched his teeth. 'We shall not fall! In nomine Lucis et pater Benedicti!'

The headmaster shiverred. An icy chill ran down his spine. What the hell, he thought, their Holy Light is just a myth!

Yes, just a myth. But Gandling seems to have forgotten one little detail. It is the will, the faith. Just like magic. In all the worlds - be it Azeroth, Draenor or our own - magic is a force field. It is the strong will, imagination and faith in magic that forms it into spells. This rule works also for religion.

It is not about the deity, but the strenght of faith.

The Crusaders rushed.

And instantly the small island of Caer Darrow was painted with their blood. The mindless zombies were not much of a challenge, but enough to kill some of the attackers. And the necromancers did not wait. With each falled human one undead rose...

Gandling stood atop the hill and kept laughing. And laughing.

It was a one-sided battle. And ended as soon as began. The cultists from Scholomance gathered the Scarlet corpses and formed one great pile of bodies. Fresh material that will soon become fine undead.

Somewhere in that pile laid the mutilated body of the head priest.

Dathrohan surveyed the blackened street. Then his gaze moved to the barred prison. One more day and the lich lands in the boneyard. For good.

He grinned. How sweet tastes a victory you can bathe in, the one you can use... for vengeance.

Do your best, Arthas, I want that head.

But either way, I shall have you all!

He would laugh, but a familiar, eager voice from beyond the walls bellowed:

'_Dathrohan!_'

Within the next few minutes he was up above the main gate, gazing down. There were four people before him: Arthas and his Barov lackeys.

Dathrohan's eyes widened.

One of the cultist ladies down there held something he recognized at an instant. It was big, white, horned, dripping with dark blood and very, very surprised.

Varimathras' head!

'I have done my part.' Arthas said, his voice low and eyebrows narrowed. He looked grim, determined and _dead_ serious.

A true undead king.

'Now it's your turn!'

'I am very impressed, your honour!' Dathrohan said. He clapped his hands. 'I applaud you, good king! You made it just in time. Indeed you did.'

'Free him!' Arthas hissed.

Dathrohan blinked, taken aback. Things were getting a bit out of hand. But he can't panic. Now in front of _them_, for heaven's sake!

He waved at a guard, who left the walls instantly. The next few minutes stretched into eternity, the pond of dark blood growing bigger undead the severed head.

How on Azeroth did they manage with just _four_ men!

The guard returned soon. Rattling of chains accompanied his heavy steps as he crossed the gates. The legless skeleton of Kel'Thuzad followed him grimly. He did not show a single emotion, though under the mask he was completely shocked. Just like Dathrohan did, he knew this was impossible.

Illucia threw the head towards the gate Blood splattered all around the white stone bridge in grotesque patterns, the surprised, blurred glass eyes gazing up into vein. The lich sent it a blank brief stare which quickly returned back to his king's determined face.

He barely managed to keep control over himself.

The blue rings in Arthas' eyes were growing.

Dathrohan sneered and waved at the guard once more. The man produced a small silver key and released kel'Thuzad, growling. The lich quickly floated toards the four undead, sighing with inner relief.

The Grand Crusader said noting more. He withdrew from the walls, almost running, fury overwhelming him. On his way back towards the Crimson Throne, deep in Stratholme's cathedral, he paid attention to nothing. He did not know when he stumbled across his own servants, because it was them who fell over. He did not notice when it began to rain.

He did not even know that when the guards reach down for Varimathras' head, there was nothing to take.

Finnall gazed accusingly at the pale moon, as if it was its fault that night came. It was cold in this part of the Plaguelands but she did not bother with putting on any warmer cloak or coat. Years of war made her a tough warrior and merciless enemy.

Moonlight shone in her amber eyes an she stood at the road of Terrordale, frozen in place.

Light curse you, Arthas, curse you for eternity! Human again you may be, but we elves never forget the past.

Jaina is a fool! Blinded but what you once were. But I know you're not anymore. You weren't when you severed my mother's head. There is one saying in Quel'Thalas, you know. Blood for blood. I do not care who now leads the Scourge, whom should I fear nor who you now are. I've sworn vengeance and I shall have it.

Bandu thoribas, Arthas! Blood for blood!

'Are you alright, Kel?' Arthas asked.

The lich nodded, deciding to ignore the way his king called him. The death knight seemed to have noticed that the name slipped from his lips. He did his best to keep a straight face.

'They did nothing to me, my king.' Kel'Thuzad said. 'I managed to concentrate their atention on a different goal.'

Arthas raised an eyebrow quetioningly, but before he could ask, the lich burst out:

'The living! What are they doing here!'

'Easy there, lich.' Alexiei Barov said coldly. Jaina and Finnall remained expressionless in their seats before what remained of Terrordale inn.

'They're friends.' the death knight finished.

Kel'Thuzad would not believe him that easily. Finnall gave him real hell, assaulting villages and towns of the Scourge under his command. He does not trust her.

And that Proudmoore girl. She was with Arthas when they sle him, Kel'Thuzad. The one who resisted both the plague and lust for vengeance. A little brat who nearly ruined everything.

He could never ever trust her either.

'Living cannot be friends with undead.' he snapped at Barov.

'On the contrary, lich.' Jaina cut in. 'You surely know there is something wrong with your precious king.'

Arthas nodded as the empty eyes turned to him. Of course Kel'Thuzad knew. He used it in his bluff. But...

He looked into his king's eyes once more.

'Kel, you must believe us.' Arthas said, his voice weak. he didn't sound like ruler who claimed Icecrown at all. 'I have only three warriors of my own. Lost contact with Anub'arak. I need everyone I can find... even if I risk sudden death.'

Finnall blinked. She should have known he doesn't trust her.

But that doesn't matter...

Kel'Thuzad remained silent, his empty gaze travelling from the half-elf to the human.

'Now please explain what have you done to the Crusade.' Arthas ordered softly.

Voice of a paladin, the lich thought grimly. This is no dream.

I lost both of my kings.

He sighed. 'I did nothing. Words did. Humans believe too easily.' his expression could not chance, but the others knew well that he grinned. 'I told them I shall betray you, my king, if they keep me alive.'

Arthas raised an eyebrow. 'They fell for it?' he asked in disbelief.

'Indeed, my king. I told them that they will weaken you greatly if they attack the right stronghold.' his ethereal grin widened. 'They believed when I said it was Caer Darrow.'

Arthas nearly fell over laughing, but Barov and his wife caught him in time. Jaina and Finnall gazed at Kel'Thuzad, the ranger's stare blank and the archmage' face wearing a wide and nasty grin.

'Kel, you're a life-saver!' the king managed to say as he began to regain control over himself. 'Either the Crusade or Gandling will get a good beating!'

'There is more, my king.' the lich announced. 'Let us go inside.'

They all entered the haunted inn where they left a set of chairs around one big table after their last strategy meeting. Alexiei unrolled the old map of the Eastern Continents and placed it neatly on the table. Chairs creeked as they all sat - except Kel'Thuzad, who floated by Arthas' side.

'There is still something we can do to weaken Gandling.'

Deep, almost deafening silence followed. Some eyes were fixed upon the speaker, rest trailed various paths on the map. It was indeed very old, the parchment yello, with towns and villages named as years ago. For this piece of parchment time stop when Lordaeron was still there.

Kel'Thuzad's bony finger landed at Darrowmere Lake, right at the center. There, on a small island, stood Caer Darrow. The bone travelled south, through Hillsbrad Foothills, Arathi Highlands (named after the bloodline of the first human king), south to Khaz Modan and further until it reached the accursed Blackrock Mountain.

There it stopped.

'The Cult has been raising a plauged dragonflight.' the lich announced. 'But it was a very new project, still in the phase of experiments. To proceed, the necromancers needed more eggs to produce strong dragons able to breed. And here' he tapped the map 'is where they get the eggs from.'

Jaina's sky-blue eys gazed at him in disbelief. 'From the Black Dragonflight? The _Blackrock_ orcs? _How_?'

'This is one thing I will not tell you.'

'But that is not what matters.' Illucia cut in softly. 'The thing is, if we stop the caravan from the mountain, we will disable Gandling's "secret" weapon.'

Everyone around her grinned.

The chair flew across the chamber and broke against the opposite wall. Useless pieces of wood fell to the marble floor. The two archamges gulped audiably, their eyes following their leader. He was walking to and fro the chamber, teeth and fists clenched. His eyes burnt with sheer fire.

Dathrohan was furious.

'Fools!' he growled. 'You're mages! How could you not know!'

One of the two men opened his mouth, but closed it as fast. He dared not speak, not now. He'd get torn to pieces.

'How dare they send me illusions! You should have noticed that, fools! We lost the lich and our troops fell at Caer Darrow! Arthas is weakend, yet still wins!'

He slammed a fist against a working desk, which creeked dangerously. The mages could swaer they've seen a light crack on it. Dathrohan shook his head and ran a hand through his brown hair.

'No, it's alright.' he said. 'All's fine.'

Only insane peopel speak like that, first drunk with fury, then all of a sudden and sober. In fact, he was as insane, as _inhuman_ as one can be.

But no one was aware of the reason.

'Forget the lich. Forget the damn head.' he ordered the two frightened mages. 'Send some troops to Tyr's Hand and get them more from Tirisfal. As _fast_ as possible. I will head there soon and we shall have our revenge on Arthas.' he paused, as if catching breath or wanting to grin. But he did neither.

'Blood for blood!'

Terrordale was left deserted shortly after Kel'Thuzad's release. Caravans of Theramore humans and the high elves crossed the Plaguelands slowly with great care. There were meny regiments of the Scarlet Crusade heading east - one false move and they would end up sliced. The caravans marched further and further south, the people silent.

Finally, after six days of eager march, they have crossed the rivers that split continents and entered the dwarven kingdom of Khaz Modan. Right now they were stopped by guards at the very entrance to the underground passage, the deep and splendid tunnels of Dun Algaz.

'Halt!' one of the dwarven guards called. The men and horses paused at once. 'What brings ye here?'

Jaina's steed took a few small steps forward. 'Supplies ordered by the Thorium Brotherhood.' she explained.

'Lady Proudmoore!'

'We were to deliver them to Searing Gorge. I came in person to ensure they reach their destination.'

The dwarves nodded, one by one. They stepped aside, revealing the first of many Dun Algaz tunnels. It was shaped in sheer stone, but decorated with marble - floors, ceiling, walls - which ensured that it will not collapse. Although the people of Khaz Modan are short, the tunnel was huge, high and wide, so that even machines of war could cross.

Jaina smiled and took off forward. Her caravans followed, watched by the guards. One of them narrowed his eyesbrows suspiciously, but just for a brief moment. Jaina called:

'Light be with you, good dwarves!'

'Fare ye well, m'lady!' the other called back.

After they crossed all the tunnels and entered the wintery peaks of Dun Morogh, they surveyed the very heart of Khaz Modan.

There was slight movement on one of the bigger carts.

Arthas peaked from under his cover.

'Can't breathe in here!' he panted in a whisper.

'Hide, fool!' Finnall snapped angrily. 'You want to be seen!'

She pushed him back under the cover, causing muffled 'ouch's from both him and Barov.

They marched for days onward, the Blackrock Mountain still far ahead. Crossing the green plains of Loch Modan and the barren Badlands, they could always see its top, the Blackrock Spire, observing the world with its dark, empty eyes. It was a place of war and bloodshed, veiled in a long, tragical history.

Once a part of the Redridge Mountains, Blackrock was as peaceful and serene. But that tranquility did not last forever. Years ago, when one of the dwarven kings died, three other clans fought for the throne. During that time, known as the War of the Three Hammers, the Dark Iron dwarves, those of black hair and ashen skin, showed their true nature. Unlike their brethren, they fought using dark arts of magic. Fouling the stronghold of Grim Batol, once a fortress of the Wildhammer clan, they were forced to flee south to the mountains, to an underground city of Shadowforge. There the head woman of the Dark Irons released Ragnaros, the elemental of sheer fire, its lord and master - the very same the Titans chained beneathed the earth when they shaped the world. An epic battle between the Dark Irons and the united Wildhammers and Bronzebeards took place. The shadowy clan was defeated and forced to remain hidden underground. Ragnaros survived, and still dwells deep in the very molten core of the mountain.

But that was not the end of touble there. During the Second War orcs of the Blackrock Clan, after which the mountain was named, were pushed back to Redridge and settled at its highest peak. They built the city of Hordemar and also their greatest stronghold - the Blackrock Spire. Atop the Spire dwells their master, the black dragon Nefarian Blackwing, rumoured to be an offspring of Deathwing himself. Once during the Second War, before Blackwing's existance wa revealed, forces of the Grand Alliance came to put an end to the old Horde. Ambushed, they managed to survive, but sire Anduin Lothar, regent lord of Stormwind, fell in a duel with Warchief Orgrim Doomhammer. His statue still stands south of the mountain, its marble sword pointing to the very Spire. The Blackrock orcs remained there.

And never liked the dwarves. Emeror Dagran Thaurissan leads the Dark Irons on behalf of Ragnaros, and Warchief Rend Blackhand commands his orcs in the name of Blackwing. Top fights the bottom, warlocks fight warlocks, dragons fight fire. Peace was never meant to last on Blackrock Mountain.

And now the caravans from the north reached an area known as Searing Gorge, a barren, grey land north of the mountain. The air was heavy, full of dust, ash and smoke, for the dwarves ad their elemental allies did much of their blacksmithing and engineering work out here.

Their path led further south, through the Gorge and into the mountain. As always it was empty and sinisterly silent. And hot, for it was filled with molten lava, stones forming but a thin ring around the hellish pool. Above it, chained to the stone pathway, was a floating rock, tomb of one of the Dark Iron kings.

As the caravan reached the mountain, the Blackrock orcs were leaving the Spire, escorting carts of giant grey eggs. Ambushed by the northern visitors, they fought valiantly as orcs do, but had no particular chance. Most of them were quickly pushed down into the lava with the carts, their screams of agony muffled and short, while the rest was being sliced by the two mighty runeblades and dozins of sharp swords. The stone pathway turned crimson.

'No more eggs for Gandling this time.' Arthas spat.

Behind him, Finnall grinned sinisterly.

'And it's the end of one more thing.' she announced.

Within a second, with surprising agility, she grabbed the undead king from behind, one of his hands pulled behind his back, Finnall's redden sword by his throat.

'Finnall!' Jaina cried. 'I beg you, sister-'

'Not a word!' the half-elf snapped. Arthas felt himsefl sweating. All the eyes were now upon him, the Barovs no less terrified. But if they moved, he would choke on his own blood.

'Blood for blood, Arthas!'

**End of ch. II.**


End file.
